Loveday Heptane - Tumblr Posts

In Defense of Loveday Heptane

My special interest in the lyctoral cavaliers knows no bounds. I have developed a particular interest in Loveday Heptane: a creature so reviled that God himself had to coerce Mercy and Augustine into eulogizing her a full myriad after her death... and he doesn't have anything kind to say himself. When even the guy who nuked a planet thinks you're a piece of work, you must be something REALLY special.

This begs the question: Did Loveday Heptane, like... eat a baby or something?! Is she evil incarnate? What the heck did she do?!

Reader, I have some thoughts.

Loveday never speaks anywhere in the text. All the details about her are second-hand (some might even say third-hand: her own necromancer only mentions her ONCE, and she doesn't give us much). Figuring her out requires a deep dive into contextual evidence, human psychology, and marvelous leaps of misplaced intuition.

Lucky for other cavalier-obsessed folks, I am deranged and up for the challenge! Join me beyond the cut for a very long post about grief, caregiving, and why literally every bad thing in this series is Cristabel's fault! Onward! (Heads Up: this is a LONG post, even for me!)

First Gen vs Second Gen Disciples

I think it's common for people to perceive ancient history as a monolith. When many people think about "Ancient Greece" for example, they're lumping together 1,000 years of history. Likewise, the pre-lyctorhood period spanned a minimum of 200 years from beginning to end.

For context, that's a little less than all of colonial American history. It constitutes multiple human lifetimes. A LOT of cultural shifts took place in that period. The difference between a "first gen" Canaan house disciple (for our purposes, any disciple present on Earth pre-resurrection, which may or may not include Ulysses and Titania) and a "second gen disciple (for our purposes, born in the Houses) is massive. First gen disciples were resurrected. They were whole, adult humans, without complete memories. They contributed to the culture and religious practices in the houses. We can assume they created the first necromantic theorems. Not only that, but they were always together. As far as they are aware, they did not exist in any other context - no parents, no families, no other support structure. They had each other, period. Second gen disciples were born. They had parents and families prior to their time at Canaan house - they came from a context beyond John and Canaan house. They grew up under the cultural and religious norms established by the first gen disciples. So much of what the first genners established from scratch was axiom to the second genners - the way things had always been for them. They all arrived at Canaan house as outsiders, chosen for skills or aptitude as the field of necromancy progressed. Most importantly: first gen disciples met John as a man and centered him as God. Second gen disciples met him as God and had to reconcile that he really was just a man. I do believe he was CLOSER to a man, pre-lyctorhood. He could still travel to the houses then. He was still and accessible, flesh and blood human. Even so, I find it hard to believe that a second gen disciple could stand before God without feeling a little starstruck. The power imbalance SEEMED greater, even if it wasn't.

All that said, I think it's essential to acknowledge that Mercy, Cristabel, Augustine and Alfred were all first gen disciples. In contrast, Loveday and Cytherea were both second gen - the LAST second gen lyctors to arrive at Canaan house, at that. There could have been a hundred years between Cyrus and Valancy's arrival and Cytherea and Loveday's. The first gen disciples had been palling around, creating a society, for nearly 200 years before those two were even born.

That gap mattered. Even posthumously, Augustine called Cytherea "Little Cyth." She was always and forever the little sister, even after she outlived three lyctors (plus Anastasia). Think about Mercy calling Harrow and Ianthe infants. Yes, the scale is a little different, but Cytherea and Loveday would have arrived with SO MUCH LESS life experience than the oldest old people.

Keep this all in mind as we move forward.

Cytherea and the Miracle at Rhodes

I believe that Cytherea's specialist Seventh house knowledge was essential to the completion of the eightfold word "megatheorem" and unlocking lyctorhood... and all roads to this discovery lead to, well... Rhodes.

What was The Miracle at Rhodes? I do not believe it was Cytherea herself, but her work. John says he wanted to remain a disinterested party: he didn't want to see the woman. In fact, he had to have it confirmed that the woman was even a necromancer.

What are the necromantic specialties on the Seventh? There's puppeting - but that would NOT be interesting to John. That was literally the first necromantic miracle pre-resurrection.

The other Seventh house specialty is the creation of the beguiling corpse and other funerary and preservation magic.

I consider Cytherea to be a pseudo-reliable narrator. I believe her when she claims she never lied. In GtN, she tells Gideon that her greatest fear - the fear that propelled her to go to Canaan house at all - was the fear of dying, being locked away, and being forgotten. It tracks that her personal necromantic work might have centered on creating beautiful, incorruptible corpses - cadavers lovely and perfect enough to be kept on display in glass coffins, where the dead would not be forgotten.

Perhaps by... fixing a soul fragment in place so it couldn't deteriorate, allowing the essence of the deceased to remain? Something with MAJOR applications for a certain megatheorem? Something like "Step four: fix [the soul] in place so it can't deteriorate" - the portion of the eightfold discovered in Cytherea and Loveday's lyctoral lab?

(I also want to take a moment to acknowledge that the two types of necromancy that John does not condone, beguiling corpsehood and siphoning, were keys to lyctorhood. Hmmm hmmm hmmmmm)

Either John or someone with him (Cassy? Anastasia?) could have recognized how Cytherea's expertise would be essential to the work at Canaan house. Either John decided to invite Cytherea, or he was coerced into extending the invitation so the disciples could gain access to the mind behind the miracle.

As I've asked before...is an invitation from God ever really an invitation? What would it have meant to say no to the emperor? Cyth seems to have thought that going was fully her decision, but I wonder about the extent to which she really felt she had a choice.

Ultimately, it was "the right" choice. The theorem wasn't complete until Cyth and Loveday arrived.

Canaan House and Grief as a Context

Not only did Cytherea and Loveday arrive as second-generation disciples, forced to leave family, culture, and lives behind, but they were also the first pair we know of who were grieving before they arrived. They were the only duo for whom arrival at Canaan House always meant goodbye.

Cytherea came to Canaan house to die. She was not doing well when she arrived - both John and Augustine describe being surprised by just how close to death she was when they met. Choosing to study under the emperor was a choice to die as brilliant AND beautiful, as someone too important to lock away in a grave for all eternity. I doubt Cytherea realized the others were working on immortality before she arrived.

She was sick. She expected to get sicker. None of the other disciples could "do anything for her" at the time (per Augustine in HtN).

I am reminded of the summons from the emperor at the beginning of GtN: "no retainers, no attendants, no domestics." Assuming there was no formal cavaliership in the early empire, Cyth would have been tasked with bringing along a single companion. For Cyth, this wasn't a case of "which of my closest friends do I pick to go and meet God?" or "Which nurse at Rhodes do I like the best?" This was a question of "who is going to be at my bedside holding my hand when I die?"

I do not think she made that choice lightly.

We don't know who Loveday was to her. A lover? A lady's maid? A nurse? A best friend? Perhaps some proto-cavalier with many duties of care? What's important to me is that she was someone who Cytherea was willing to ask to be with her at the end. What's even more important to me is that Loveday said yes, even though it meant giving up a LOT.

Being a caretaker is hard. Watching someone you love die is agonizing. I have done both, and I rate it a big 0/10 stars. The only person who has it harder is the person who is dying. It's kind of an unwritten rule of active grief that you do NOT ask the person who is dying to comfort YOU about THEIR death.

Now, remember all that seemingly irrelevant detail about first gen vs second gen disciples? About how strange and isolating it would be for second gen disciples? About everything they'd have to leave behind?

Here we have Loveday, the final second gen proto-cavalier. She's not the special one - that's Cyth. Everyone gathered to meet Cytherea: the woman, the miracle worker. Loveday was there for Cyth, period. Nobody is there for Loveday.

in GtN, Cytherea offers Gideon the most authentic smile when she calls herself "the fakest-ass cavalier who ever faked." It felt very much like she'd seen this behavior before. Did Loveday feel like an impostor? Was she being handed a rapier and being asked to compete with cavaliers with a century or more of sword fighting experience? Even if she could fight, she certainly felt like an outsider among God's best and brightest.

Furthermore, is she supposed to go to these intimidating members of god's inner circle for comfort as she navigates the imminent death of the person she loves most in the world? The one person who wasn't part of a 200-year old clique was the one person she couldn't go to for comfort. That's LONELY. At least on the Seventh there would have been a little respite - family members, friends, someone to talk to. And Loveday would have KNOWN Cytherea - known how well she could perform wellness, known that she was "good at seeming," known that she was going to push herself and make it seem effortless until the end.

What do you think happened when Cytherea returned to their quarters at the end of a long day of being smart and charming and polished in public? Who would have been there to help her when there were no longer eyes on her, and she could finally admit she was exhausted and in agony? Loveday was, presumably, her "safe person" - the one who saw the worst of her and her illness. Did Loveday ever get her at her best?

I assume Loveday didn't want her to go at all, but couldn't begrudge her the ending she wanted. I wonder if, from Loveday's perspective, "[she] had the choice to stop." In John's words, "Loveday brought [Cytherea] in, looking as though she wanted every one of us beaten to death." Anger is a stage of grief, and Loveday was dealing with more than grief over Cytherea's imminent death. She was losing everything she knew. As Cytherea's caretaker, she was about to lose a major part of her identity, too.

And what's the stage of grief after anger? Bargaining - the part of grief in which you "yell at God." I imagine that might have gone a little differently when God was literally standing there, picking biscuit detritus out of his teeth.

Imagine looking god himself in the eye, asking for help, for a cure for the brilliant, hilarious, kind, beautiful person you love - a person he claims to value as a friend and collaborator - and getting a pat on the head. I'm pretty sure that would test anyone's faith.

...not even to mention the fact that a tangible form of immortality was on the line, and they were close.

Mercy, Augustine, and John: Reliable Narrators?

"I will say this," said Mercy presently, acting as though Augustine had never said a word. "I NEVER mourned for Loveday Heptane. She did one good thing with her life, and she knew it."

Those be fighting words, Mercymorn! Augustine does not disagree with her or try to come to Loveday's defense - not even to be contrary and get on her nerves. Nor does John.

I would like to argue that John, Mercy, and Augustine are not the most reliable narrators, however. Just a few pages before the eulogies, John is misremembering the circumstances surrounding Cytherea's arrival. We've also seen them claim, carte blanche, that everyone hated Alecto and wanted her gone. We know that's bullshit from Pyrrha in Nona. We also come to learn that Anastasia likely felt differently, too.

This suggests to me that Loveday probably didn't eat a baby. We only know for certain that Mercy, John, and Augustine weren't fans, with Mercy being the most outspoken about her feelings.

Now, we got to spend an entire novel with Mercymorn and learn about what made her tick. I tend to believe that "I didn't like this person" is synonymous with "this person did something to Cristabel."

It All Comes Back to Cristabel Oct

Okay, so you're Loveday Heptane. The person you love most is dying painfully, and you are actively grieving. You're also hanging out in a big ol' castle with God. As Cyth's illness progresses and the megatheorem fails to materialize, your grief continues to multiply. You reach the bargaining stage. You are on your knees, begging God to do something, do more, do better. God does not do anything, let alone more or better. God apologizes and asks if anybody wants to play Scrabble on Game Night.

Could you blame Loveday for getting angry at God? For questioning everything she believed? For questioning everything going on at Canaan house, and casting doubt? Maybe she even tried to strangle John! Who knows!

Do you know who would see that desperate, hungry, angry faithlessness and strike? I'll give you one guess.

That's right! Cristabel "suicidal golden retriever with self-inflicted brain damage" Oct!

She's here, telling you why you're wrong, and why your suffering is actually nothing in the scheme of the work! She's here, telling you that God is good, actually! That you just can't see the bigger picture! Here, I'll shove a tract under your bedroom door! I'll let you know I'm praying for you whenever I pass you in the halls! Do you want to pray about it? Do you want to fast about it? Do you wanna do a bunch of inane, ritualistic shit about it and then come around to loving God again?!?! Huh? Huh? Do ya? Do ya?

COULD YOU BLAME LOVEDAY IF SHE DID, IN FACT, PUNCH HER IN THE FACE?

Now, I'm not saying she did that, but I think she would have been well within her rights to tell the nun to politely fuck off.

Anyway, if you have beef with Cristabel, you have beef with both Mercy and Alfred. If you have beef with Alfred, you have beef with Augustine. If you have beef with all of God's favorite toys, and you're being an angry heretic in his halls, you probably also have some beef with God, whether or not you tried to strangle him.

Candor and Alien Grief

Remember, THE FIRST GEN DISCIPLES HAVE NO MEMORY OF EXPERIENCING GRIEF! They have been living safely with God, with no fear of death, for hundreds of years! Before lyctorhood, loss was an alien concept for them. Every single person they loved (their "brothers and sisters") was immortal and living in a castle on their very own private planet! It was like the Garden of Eden!

Loveday and Cytherea are outsiders - the only two who honestly know what's coming.

To tell the truth, I don't think Loveday had to have kicked Cristabel's ass to get on Mercymorn's shitlist. I think this angry, doubtful, grieving, exhausted caretaker only had to observe Cristabel and Alfred's suicides (and Mercy and Augustine's ascensions) and have an honest opinion about it a little too soon.

It needn't even have been malicious. She could have merely whispered "that was shitty," within earshot before the bodies were cold.

She could have turned to Cytherea and promised she would NEVER do what Alfred and Cristabel had done - that it would always be their choice together, no secrets.

To Mercy, being a new denizen in the world of absolute grief, that might have been enough to put Loveday on the shit list for 10,000 years. How DARE she say anything about Cristabel now that she was gone? How DARE she acknowledge what, 10,000 years later, Mercy still could not acknowledge herself?

And remember: Cytherea was the last saint to ascend. We don't know how long it was between Mercy's ascension and Cytherea's. Loveday was the last, stubborn cavalier in the halls of Canaan House - a living, breathing reminder of what everyone else had already lost. It would be easy to resent her. She was the proof, however temporary, that it was possible to say no.

What we do know, from Cytherea herself, was that the choice was 100% mutual. She says "WE thought it would make me live." They waited until Cytherea was on her deathbed and made the decision together. Cytherea and Loveday got something Mercy never got.

All things considered, I might have hated her, too.

Who Was Loveday Heptane?

Maybe Loveday was angry but civil.

Maybe she had a bad attitude and never made friends.

Or maybe nobody thought about her twice until they were grieving themselves and it became too easy to make her an enemy for telling the truth.

We don't know who Loveday was in life, and the odds are good that we never will. She only survived as the death of light - the gleam in a monster's eyes.

But she was also the companion who was brave enough to accompany her necromancer to the grave. She was probably the person who filled Cytherea's lab with stunning, dreamy, pastoral frescoes, cozy cushions, and embroidered quilts, so she'd never have to know discomfort. She was the last cavalier standing when the pressure was high and mounting and did not give in until she didn't have a choice.

Augustine tells us that Cytherea loved unguardedly. She was a patient soul who loved the unlovable. And she loved Loveday Heptane: the good, bad, and ugly.

Somehow, all things considered, I can't help but love her, too.

The Last Bout

Over the past week, Loveday Heptane had taken to wearing her bladed gauntlets wherever she went. 

She understood that this was off-putting.

 She did not particularly care. 

After Anastasia had repaired her thirteenth phalangeal fracture in a fortnight, she realized she cared more for her gear than she did for herself. The presence of those knuckle knives was just enough to give her pause before she let loose and punched the wall. 

In those moments, she thought of Annabel with an envy that was greener than roses in the bud. She longed to rend flesh and scream. It was difficult to stay soft while wearing gauntlets. 

Her new habit meant that she was already armed when John strolled into their bed chamber with sickening nonchalance, clearing Cytherea’s saturated chest with a single, citrus-scented gesture. Prior to that moment, she had been frightened, boiling water and relying on base instincts. She was terrified that Cyth would drown in a dry ocean of whisper-soft sheets while she stood there like an incompetent idiot. And, because she’d grown up devout, she’d prayed. 

Why was she furious that God had answered? 

She hadn’t meant to punch him the first time, but the second time gauntlet met bone, it was on purpose. She’d launched herself bodily atop him, straddling his hips like a lover, tearing into his skin over and over to no avail. If Cyth hadn’t come to, she might have kept going for eternity like a starved, mad ouroboros. 

Instead, she bore down on his chest and pushed off, tearing down the hall, her anger like a torrid cloud of steam with nowhere to go. She peeled off the gauntlets, ashamed. They made an awful sound as they skidded against the stone, falling limp and bloody in a corner.

Violence didn’t feel good unless there was feedback—it had to be tangible, it had to take. And so, she found herself facing off against her old friend, the corridor wall. 

“Anastasia isn’t here,” came a calm voice from behind her, catching her off-guard before she could strike. 

“I know,” Loveday responded with a shuddering breath, still facing the wall, head bowed, vision spotty with rapidly dispersing rage. 

“Alright, then. If the wall’s offended you, by all means.” 

Loveday leaned forward, pressing her blood-hot forehead into the cool stone. She shut her eyes tight.

“Come here.”

“I’m fine here,” Loveday hissed.

“Then I’ll come to you.” 

Despite her pristine, all-white training ensemble, Cristabel sat on the ground, leaning up against the stone. She was the only person at Canaan House who’d never seemed to fear her. Everyone else was smart enough to back away when faced with a feral creature, but Cris took her chances—she was convinced she could tame anything. 

In their current configuration, they could have been two little girls playing hide and seek. Cris sat quietly as Loveday worked through her moment, sniffing and huffing like a distressed animal. 

When it was reasonably quiet, Cristabel reached up one hand and caught Loveday’s in her own, massaging the knuckles in a practiced gesture. Loveday had spotted her doing the same to her necromancer beneath the supper table when the dinnertime conversation became particularly contentious. 

“Pretty nails,” Cris remarked. Loveday merely produced a noncommittal hum. Cytherea had never been allowed to paint her nails. Her army of caretakers worried they’d miss out on the signs of cyanosis. The necromancer loved those tiny colorful bottles of varnish, however, and had been subjecting Loveday to weekly manicures from the age of nine. 

It took longer these days. Cyth’s hands were rarely steady, though neither of them commented on it. If Loveday’s nails went bare for too long, she began to feel naked. 

She wondered if she’d get used to it one day. 

She hated herself for wondering. 

“I punched Teacher,” she blurted out after a few moments of oppressive silence. In a rare turn of events, she found that she preferred existing in the present to dwelling in the abyss of endless anger—and anything was better than launching herself into the future. 

“How’d that go?”

“He liked it.”

Cristabel burst out into a whole-body laugh that echoed through the halls, floating and bouncing like chamber music, like bubbles. 

“It isn’t funny.” “It is, a bit. ‘He liked it,’ she said,” the eighth cavalier wheezed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Why do you think he liked it?” 

“I don’t know. He took it. He leaned into it. When someone’s throwing a duel, you can tell.”

“I meant, what do you think would make him like it?”

The only thing to pop into Loveday’s mind in response was the image of Annabel. 

“That’s none of my business,” she replied drolly. She’d grown up with Cytherea, after all, and in fairer weather, they shared the same inoffensive brand of Rhodian wit. Cris grinned in return. 

“We all like things that aren’t good for us. I’ve fallen in love with plenty of things that scare me.” “I’m not interested in talking about Mercymorn.” Again, Cris laughed. “Other things,” she amended, “Will you sit?” Loveday acquiesced, plopping down on the ground beside the older cavalier, one knee propped up. She hugged it to her chest. 

“What do you need?” Cris asked, finding it easier to speak earnestly when she could look into her face. “If you need to hit something, we can spar. If you need to talk, I have nowhere else to be.” 

“Cytherea might need—” “John’s got her. What do you need?” 

“If she’s feeling better, she won’t want to be in bed.” 

“And she’s an adult and capable of expressing as much. Let him handle it. He can use the exercise.” 

“It’s my job,” Loveday shot back, a bit more aggressively than she’d intended. “You asked what I need? I need to do my job.” 

“What’s your job?” Cris asked. Loveday looked back at her like she’d produced a series of high-pitched squeaking noises rather than words. 

“We have the same job,” Loveday replied slowly, in case the incessant trepanning had finally taken its toll. 

“I don’t disagree,” Cris replied, her tone flip, “I only wonder why honoring God and His resurrection means obsessing over her, punching Him, and thoroughly ignoring yourself.” 

Loveday huffed incredulously, rising to her feet, her jaw set. She began stalking away, unsure that she wanted to go back to the bedroom. Teacher might still be there. He’d either mention her murder attempt casually or never bring it up again, and she wasn’t sure which would be worse.  

“Are you angry because I’m right?” Cristabel called after her, her voice filling the hall. 

On another day, Loveday might have kept right on walking—not pausing, not flinching. Today she turned around. 

“No,” she spat decisively. “I know what I need. And I’ve already asked for it.”

“Good,” Cristabel said. Loveday snorted as if to say, ‘not good.’ 

“Have you ever asked a question, not because you weren’t sure of the answer, but because you needed to hear what you already knew spoken aloud?”

“I’m sure I have.”

“I asked him, and he gave the wrong answer.”  Loveday's voice was too sharp and shrill in those desolate halls, desperate in a way that the kilted mountain of a woman rarely allowed. “I’ve asked for one thing. One thing, for her, not for me, and he said no.” 

Cristabel did not balk, and her voice remained true, even as the blue-eyed goliath fell apart before her. “You know he loves you. Both of you.” 

Loveday said nothing.  

“What did you ask?” Cristabel prompted tentatively. 

For a long moment, Loveday didn’t speak. She swallowed, working her throat.

“If we don’t finish the work before…” she paused, “...before Cytherea succumbs—” she struggled, hating each word as she said it, “I asked if he’d bring her back. I don’t see why he couldn’t. He resurrected humanity, all of humanity, and she’s so small. I’m not a necromancer, but shouldn’t that be easy? One soul? I don’t understand. He’s supposed to be God.” 

“Loveday, he resurrected humanity so that each of us could die on our own terms.” 

“These aren’t her terms.” 

“It’s a gift to die again.” “Do not say that to me.” 

“And to die for Him and His empire—” 

“She isn’t dying for him! She’s done enough for him! She’s just dying!” the cavalier roared, pacing as if caged, “She’s dying from a cancer that he resurrected, that our house believes was ordained. I could accept that the cancer was a mistake, but I cannot accept letting the mistake win.” 

“Do you think death and loss are the same?” 

“They are.” Loveday knew what it meant to lose, in every sense of the word. She was the Seventh’s show pony—a gifted swordswoman unaffiliated with a cavalier line, unlikely to ascend to any rank or title. Rather than wasting her, they sent her off to compete, so she could win trophies on behalf of Castle Rhodes. After some years, she’d grown bored of dueling and had begun training in new weapons, showing off her superlative skills in demonstration categories. She might’ve gone on like that forever, collecting big swords and measuring her life in wins and losses, if Cytherea hadn’t risen in the house’s esteem so rapidly. They’d promised Cyth a cavalier so she could focus on her work in the limited time she had—a nursemaid more than a sword hand. She’d asked for Loveday. 

From that day on, she’d measured her life in grins, in giggles, in long afternoons basking in the colorful stained-glass light of the orangery. 

At Canaan House, the rules were different. She didn’t want to play anymore. This time, win or lose, the outcome would be for good. 

“Have you considered—”

“I don’t want your advice. It means nothing. You’ve lost no one.” 

“Loveday.” 

“I assure you, whatever you were going to ask, I’ve considered it. I considered it when I lost my father. I considered it when I lost the woman who raised me. I consider it each time I think about my mother, who I’ve never met, and the child my house desperately wants to create using my genes and hers. I cannot close my eyes at night without considering it all over again.” “Then you’d look your necromancer in the eye, on her deathbed, and call her a loser?” 

“Did I say that? Would I ever say that? No.” 

“Then, forgive me, but who’s the loser in this scenario?”

Loveday took a deep breath in through her nose. She opened her rough-palmed hands. She closed them. She ran one over her hair and exhaled. “No one,” she said as she turned on her heel and walked down the hall. This time, when Cristabel called out, she did not turn around.

Instead, she walked straight past the bloody pile of abandoned gauntlets in the corner and straight into her necromancer’s rooms. 

She wrapped Cyth in blankets, grabbed her hat, and wheeled her into the conservatory. 

She adjusted the chair. She found the perfect patch of sunlight and the perfect strip of shade. She sat back and listened to the woman who was her world prattle on about nothing while touching up the chipped, sea-green varnish on her fingernails. She rested her unbroken fingers atop her knees as they dried. Somewhere, a bird sang. In cells, in bones, in hearts, the war raged on. 

Loveday Heptane knew what her duty was, and she’d win this bout if it killed her.

Me, in the dead of night, delicately whispering my desperate pleas into the universe,

PLEASE DONT LET ALL THE OG LYCTORS BE WHITE, PLEASE DONT LET ALL THE OG LYCTORS BE WHITE, PLEA